un lwa vaudou aux yeux verts comme la mer
by witchfingers
Summary: (Picks up after the last chapter released in English.) He was amazed to find that he knew the song. His father had sung it, and his father before him, and it was a tiny sliver of the universal song of the ocean. [Setting changed to the Caribbean].


_I only changed the setting to the Caribbean. Nothing more._

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 ** _un lwa vaudou aux yeux verts comme la mer_**

 _(a voodoo loa with his eyes green, like the sea)_

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he was a god, looking over the creatures beneath him; and a king, ruling over a still, silent realm.

And above the Caribbean waves, his kingdom, he had remained a mighty ruler, bending the tides and the currents and the storms on a whim, if he so wished.

There had been kings before him, less kind but no less as powerful, and they had also bent the wills of the humans above. They had become legends, in that otherworld that gazed past the surface of the water into the unfathomable depths.

He did nothing but gaze back at them, fascinated, although he never showed himself. He was an observer of an unknown world that had sung for ages of the ruthless god of the sea, which he was, and at the same time he was not.

And below the waves, he had looked upon them, the humans, like one who observes a growing child, smiling at their victories and their little errors. And he had studied those who had made a cult around his image and his power, those who called him Agwé and Father Ocean, and them too he smiled upon, with merriment and slight condescendence, because his spirit was old and he had seen many things.

Sometimes, when they offered him flowers, he rose up to know their scent, and then, gently, made the flow carry them back to the shore.

Precisely of flowers he thought right then, when a procession of white-clad women slowly descended from the town to the shore, leaving behind them a trail of fragile petals. They sang, with voices that beckoned the sacred, and he watched them from the stone walls of the palace and felt that nothing had changed since he had left the sea.

They glistened under the early noon sun like the purest pearls, and he felt pulled to follow them.

He felt pulled to do many things there in the surface world, little of which he had indulged in. But he was a free man now, and he could follow, although this freedom came with sort of bittersweetly amusing feeling for one who could have enslaved them all, if he so had wished.

Thus, he gracefully climbed down his vantage spot at the palace wall and traced the steps of the devotees all the way back to the calling sea, walking down the empty street, overwhelmed by the sounds and noises all around him, and the pulsating colors of the aboveworld.

Passionfruit-magenta, butterfly-blue, frangipani-yellow. If only he could carry such beautiful things with him if he ever returned home. If he ever.

Only when he reached them he realized they had been dancing all along, dancing to the rhythm of their colorful, lively hymns, of which he was slightly surprised to find he was the object.

Too late (too obvious, too ensnared) to turn back now, he was mingled with the faithful folk around him, to the point where, although not purposefully, his clothes matched in whiteness and elegance the clothes of all the people around him, that chanted the name they knew him by and asked for his blessing.

He would have given them his blessing, had it been in his power.

He felt the blood running in his veins. He felt the energy rising from the crew of white chemises and tanned skin, he thought he could feel their feet on the shallow water in the form of crawling goosebumps on his recent skin. And he wished he had known before that it was so liberating to be among the devout, so magnetizing that he hoped he could join them in their dance.

But he merely stood there and let the dancers sway around him, each of them like a wave, each of them adding warmth to his smile of kindness.

He stood, and let the afternoon wear away with the singing and the voices. When they laid the offerings by the tame tideline, the sun was already setting- yet the devotees still glistened softly, like pearls, catching and treasuring the last wisps of sun.

Silence settled when a priestess called with a commanding voice; the dancing stopped gradually. Near him, the voice of an old woman snaked into a broken song, that rose up to the sky, followed by the voices of the other believers.

The broken song became a powerful song. He was amazed to find that he knew it. His father had sung it, and his father before him, and it was a tiny sliver of the universal song of the ocean.

Instinctively, his lips moved and traced the words, the painfully familiar words. It was the first time he sang in silence.

The ocean, haunting, brought him back the image of the witch, and her eyes were laughing at her dear king, surrounded by passing mortals. But the arcane words that surrounded him were full of hope and faith and prayer, and soon the image was diluted and the witch was no more.

Instead, energy rushed to him from every note, every singer around him. The calm water that lapped at the pristine sand became more and more tumultuous, the song getting louder and louder, as if all the sound in the world had bubbled up around the devotees and their disguised object of worship, as if all that could happen was that the world collapsed from the spell that was woven…

But it was so because the ocean was roaring, and all the voices had fallen silent, all the voices but one. And in awe, many began to bow, around him, until no one remained standing on the beach but him, and that was when he stopped singing to look at them, equally in awe.

The ocean fell quiet again, its surface still as a mirror, as though mesmerized, too.

He ran away.

He escaped, easily sorting through the bowed figures, taking to the streets darkened by dusk and emptiness.

Some days on the aboveworld, he had to remind himself that he was king of the place below the waters. The mere thought had walked him through countless humiliations to which, before, he would have afforded the most severe punishments. It was a certainty he deserved, to counter the certainty of the curse.

And yet, as he wandered, lost, through side-streets and gardens, and then away into the sea and along the coast, he was confused for the first time.

.

Erzulie was a name given by the mortals, but if they called him Agwé, then he had been sure that Erzulie was his dear Evyione, made before time to be with him until time was over.

Her it was he walked to without even meaning to, to find her sitting on the marble steps that led from her mother's grave to the sea. She wore her night-clothes and a heavy coat, and her gaze was lost in a horizon that was already swallowed by the darkness of the night.

She was not even startled to see him appear, walking in the water like a man walks on land, his long hair trailing after him like a thick veil of kelps.

'I was waiting for you,' she said quietly, 'But you never came. Horrible things happened afterwards, and maybe this, between us… maybe it's not right.'

She could not see his face, weighed by confusion and saddened by her words.

'They are telling terrible stories about you,' Evyione whispered, 'Of you seducing the queen, and of you being a demon. But I guess I'll never know the truth, I feel even your secrets have secrets.'

Before, she would have anticipated that he would lean forward and kiss her, bind her in his spell and make her abandon her gloomy reasoning. But that did not happen. He crossed the distance between them and sat next to her, on the steps.

Yes, she felt he would have liked to say he was hurt that he felt that. She felt much radiating from him, but time passed until it felt like it had been forever, and she stood up and said, 'I'm leaving now. Goodbye.'

He didn't think, he didn't anything- he just quickly stood, too, and grabbed her wrist, and, shockingly, his lips parted on their own and, in his old, enchanting voice (the voice of the king of the kingdom below), he heard himself say 'Wait. If you will listen, now I can tell you'.

.

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 **A/N:**

I seem to have reached *that* level of hipster where the manga (manwha, more precisely) I wrote for is not listed on . Ha, not sure if honored or disappointed.

Whatever. I just hope this becomes a category some day for the sake of tidiness xD

Btw, if I can rant, I HATE that awful name they gave him in the story. It's so unsexy I can't believe no one told the author that it would severely undermine the sensuality of the main character. What were they thinking. Rant rant.

About the title in french. Hey, why not. It's voodoo and Caribbean xD

"his long hair trailing after him like a thick veil of kelps." this is not sexy. I am aware. It was fun to write, even funnier to imagine.


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